Midtown High School stood majestically, like a building that knew its reality: grayish tile exterior, tall steel-framed windows forming a mosaic that reflected the autumn sky, and a solid wood front door studded with vertical slats.
The marble of the entrance hall was polished by centuries of hurried footsteps, sneakers, shoes, and backpack corners. Above, notice boards advertised science clubs, plays, and a debate championship that was just beginning to attract registrations that month.
The interior corridors were wide, with high ceilings lit by white fluorescent lights that cast an even glow, so much so that even the dull reflections on coats could reveal a cloudy day outside.
To the left, separating the rooms from the main corridor, lined up were metal cabinets, cream or beige in color, with those who had witnessed the marks of expired stickers and apology notes written in shaky handwriting: "Sorry, I forgot the assignment."
To the right, plywood doors finished in blood red, each number indicating a different room, and a small frosted glass window that allowed only the intrigue of students' eyes to look in from outside.
The flooring varied between varnished wood planks in the administrative areas and wood laminate elsewhere. Entrance mats, as if tasked with silence, welcomed discarded backpacks and suspicious footsteps.
Inside the classrooms, desks, either individual or grouped into "semi-social circles", depending on the teacher's mood and the educational system, occupied the space, each with a clear owner. Chalkboards still existed, scratched with white chalk, as did those more modern versions, whiteboards scrawled with colored highlighters, with calculations and reminders: "PROJECT DUE: FRIDAY."
The atmosphere, the scent of lukewarm coffee and a slightly rubberized chalkboard, was reminiscent of a past that still breathes in the present. In the cafeteria, rectangular steel tables with Formica tops mingled with fixed benches, a floor that echoed with undulating conversations, sliding trays, laughter hitting the edges of plates. The industrial kitchen in the corner produced smoke from rice and fried foods, constantly wafted by rumbles of hot air returning to the main dining room.
Midtown High was a fortress of youthful tension, organized into micro-kingdoms sensitive to the slightest spark, and Peter Parker was now living within those walls.
In Modern Quantum Physics class with Mr. Warren, Peter observed everything with a familiar detachment, but only now it began to affect his perception, like an extra eye that saw invisible threads behind faces.
Jessica Campbell sat across from him, leaning forward as if occupying a soft space, her black hair swept to one side, her pen dancing between her fingers, her eyes intent. She jotted down formulas, harmonic oscillators, probability, and every now and then exchanged a glance with Peter when he made an inside joke no one else in the room caught.
There was humor and sweetness in the way Peter leaned in, chuckling softly and sketching alternative diagrams in the margins, showing her the underlying logic. Jessica smiled, blushing sometimes, but always approachable, a calm presence in the room.
Gwen Stacy was further away, sitting next to Jessica, staring at the blackboard as if memorizing not only the equations but also the intentions behind the teacher's speech.
Peter noticed her light blond hair with golden highlights and delicate face, her fair skin, which made him freeze for a split second: she was taken with the appearance of the actress Clara Galle, or a mental reflection of it. He shook his head, distracting himself before his mind could compare. He was already growing accustomed to familiar faces from another life, and other universes.
Every now and then, Peter would exchange a word with Gwen while Jessica solved a problem behind them. A quick joke, a cordial exchange about the difficulty of the test. And each time, that uncomfortable seam between reality and memory, "is that her?", soothed with the naturalness of someone who accepts that Eyre and Darwin exist, even without wanting to think too much.
The other classmates were also inhabiting the scene: Flash Thompson in the back, swinging his feet, nibbling on the corner of his pencil case, Liz Allan turning her head slightly, laughing at something Ken Kong said, Harry Osborn noticeably more distant, his gaze visibly dry, focused... on popularity? Peter mentally registered, almost painfully sweet, Harry's appearance, popular for his appearance and features of the game Marvel's Spider-Man 2. But the smile and the old affection had disappeared almost two years ago.
He vividly remembered the day everything changed. They'd been best friends since boarding school, ironically bonded by nerdiness, holiday plans, and youthful hope. But Harry, starved for parental attention, craved popularity as if it were a lifeline.
One day, he teamed up with Flash and Kong for a cruel prank: a bucket of water fell in the middle of Physical Education class, wetting Peter and ripping off his shorts, and locking him in a closet with his underwear exposed.
Public ridicule, shouting, Flash hitting him and saying, "Look at Penis Parker!", the nickname stuck. That day, Peter felt fear. The friendship, sustained for so long by threads of trust, simply snapped.
Since then, Harry has been driven by the wealth of his inheritance, driven by the power of the Osborn name. He has become a member of the popular crowd, surrounded by laughter and easy applause, the former best friend transformed into the archetypal schoolboy charmer.
Peter felt deeply resentful, a white rage, along with sadness, and kept his distance, recognizing that to survive in that world, he had to cut ties, even when he loved who Harry was. Harry's indifference tore him apart, but his sense of his own dignity kept him strong.
----
It might be a whisper in his mind, a note buried in sheet music, but Peter noticed a look, he'd felt it for a few classes, subtle and constant. He turned his head and saw, in the corner of the room, a new student: dark brown hair, expressive, with an observant expression.
The well-fitting uniform, attentive posture, eyes that measured distance and time. Ava Ayala, White Tiger, a presence he recognized by the weight of memories: her light, strong form, the aura of stillness, features reminiscent of Lindsay Morgan. She'd joined shortly after the Oscorp excursion, coincidence or not?
And somehow, she was always in one of the same classes as him, Advanced Chemistry, Molecular Biology, Advanced Calculus.
He was convinced: it wasn't paranoia. The observation was direct, and he now, with his knowledge of another life, knew she might be there on instructions, perhaps from SHIELD.
In the animation "Ultimate Spider-Man", Ava Ayala was part of SHIELD, it wasn't crazy to assume that she was under the organization's command.
Even less crazy was the idea that Nick Fury, the spy of spies, would put an agent to watch an enhanced individual. It was just like him to do something like that.
It also made sense that in this universe, his parents were agents, perhaps of SHIELD. Richard and Mary Parker could be associated with the organization, in the comics, they were secret agents affiliated with the CIA, so them being with SHIELD in this reality would be expected.
Which would make Fury put someone to watch Peter even more rational. And Ava Ayala, as a protégé or supervisor-in-training, a vigilante. He decided to pretend he didn't notice. For now.
----
The class bell rang like a warning whip, and Peter stood up, backpack slung over his shoulders. He walked to the cafeteria, tray in hand, metal plates gleaming in a stack, spatulas distributing rice, beans, and colorful vegetables.
He looked for a seat. The tables had clear social divisions: bullies huddled in one corner, nerds in another, popular kids centered. To the sides, cheerleaders with student gold medals and competitive laughter.
And there: Felicia Hardy. The Black Cat embodied in high school persona, an unattainable platinum beauty, looks reminiscent of Madelyn Cline. A wealthy mother, a reputation for freezing hearts. Peter had heard stories from every corner, and knew, deep down in his other life, that she was an iconic figure, irresistible, mysterious, and unattainable.
An intense mark on the lives of several Peter Parkers.
But he also knew he couldn't just approach, not with his social radar on. He respectfully looked away and looked elsewhere.
Turning, he found Jessica Campbell and another redheaded girl, oblivious to the social storm. He took a breath, a safe table, comfortable humans. He approached, his heart beating curiously fast. He didn't know who the redhead was, but she must have been someone at least somewhat important, since her face reminded him of the actress Abigail Cowen. He smiled gently:
"Can I sit with you two?"
Jessica looked up in immediate, sympathetic recognition. The redhead smiled a friendly smile and introduced herself:
"I'm Angelica Jones."
Firestar! He swallowed hard inside, mutant, future heroine, slowly awakening. She made her first appearance in a Spider-Man animated series, "Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends."
She was still just a girl, but there was something vibrant and magical in her eyes, a spark of latent fire. They were there, together.
The conversation flowed, light, intelligent, full of quiet affection. Angelica laughed at the quiet jokes, Jessica welcomed the remarks with openness. He realized that there, more than anywhere else, he was building something real.
At the bullies' table, Harry's eyes flashed with a flash of anger/envy/surprise.
Peter was interfering with two girls who weren't social symbols, just people he liked. Harry bit his lip, resentment welling up in his chest, and that contrast cut through the cafeteria like a diamond through a window.
----
The Midtown hallway smelled of cold metal and squeegee, mixed with the cheap body spray athletes sprayed in the locker rooms.
The end-of-day bell was still ringing in his ears when Peter Parker, his worn backpack slung over his shoulder, closed his locker with a click. The hallway exuded the rush of freedom: echoing footsteps, loud laughter, phones raised for stories, the electric hum of a swarm of people searching for the exits.
He barely had time to exhale when he noticed the figure approaching. Liz Allan, a ready smile and that look of someone who could always make the world spin in a convenient direction, leaned against the locker next to him, her hair impeccable as if chemistry class had been a runway rehearsal.
"Peter…"
Her voice came out warm, mellifluous, rehearsed.
"Can you do my physics homework today? I…"
A smile that would be called innocent by those who didn't know her, and Peter knew her.
"I won't have time. I have a party I need to go to."
If it had been four months ago, maybe even before the memories of the other life, he would have tripped over himself to say yes.
A part of him, the one educated on the basis of "being kind is always the right thing to do", even raised his hand, as if trying to catch a word before it falls to the ground.
But the other part, the one that woke up with memories that didn't belong to a seventeen-year-old boy but to someone who had been taught boundaries the hard way, took a deeper breath.
"If you have time to party, you have time for homework, Liz."
He spoke clearly, without stuttering, looking her straight in the eye.
The hallway, for a moment, seemed to slow down. Liz blinked, her smile splitting in half. It was the first time she'd heard Peter Parker say "no" like that: not as an excuse, not as an escape, but as a decision.
The answer struck at an invisible fabric in the school, the one that said some ruled, others obeyed, and Peter always obeyed.
She opened her mouth, perhaps to take offense, perhaps to counter with charm, but the world shifted without warning. Spider-sense ripped through the back of Peter's neck in a flash of needles, a symphony of danger that filled the entire space around them.
The fist came from the corner of his eye, like an angry concrete block. Peter didn't think: his left hand grabbed Liz's waist, his right pushed open the closet door next to him, bending both their bodies in an arc that caused the punch to slice through the air inches from the girl's face.
The fist connected with the metal, a loud thud echoing through the hallway, shattering a tooth in the padlock. Liz gasped, pressed against Peter's chest for a moment that lasted a lifetime.
"Are you crazy, Flash?!"
She screamed, spinning around to face the blond who was shaking his throbbing hand.
"You almost hit me!"
Flash Thompson barely took his eyes off her. His face was a red sun of shame and anger, his hand shaking more from wounded pride than pain.
He gave Liz an automatic "sorry", the kind that carries less remorse than a store promotion sign, and took a step forward.
"So, Penis Parker, have you got the courage now?"
He growled the nickname like someone spitting out a bitter lump.
"Reject my girl? Aren't you afraid of getting hit?"
The hallway, which had already witnessed punches, falls, and small teenage kingdoms crumble to the sound of cell phones, formed a semicircle. Students raised their phones. A couple from the soccer team whispered, just enough for Peter to hear: "You're going to get your ass kicked."
Further ahead, Jessica and Angélica exchanged a helpless look, the kind that asked if intervening would help or make matters worse. Gwen, near the stairs, shrugged and narrowed her eyes in concern. Ava Ayala crossed her arms, the posture of a patient hunter. Felicia Hardy, leaning against the wall like someone who's seen this movie before and is waiting for the plot twist, smiled slightly, a smile full of secrets.
Peter opened his mouth, but Harry Osborn ran him over with the elegance of a truck.
"Parker has been thinking too highly of himself."
Harry said, loud enough for the audience.
"He even talks to girls now. Do you think anyone in their right mind would like a loser like him?"
Quick, easy laughs. Kong let out a "good one!"; Brad Davis backhanded from across the aisle. The laughter spread like germs.
Peter felt the insult bounce and bounce. Once, it would have gone through him like a shard of glass. Today, he just smiled, a tiny, almost polite gesture.
"You think that because you've never had sex with me, Harry."
The sentence came out cleanly, effortlessly, thrown into the center of the ring.
For a second, the entire school forgot to breathe. Angelica covered her mouth with her hand, laughing, Jessica was speechless, her eyebrow lost in her own hair, Gwen blinked, stunned and, despite herself, amused.
A boo, a whistle, a "Wow..." ran through the crowd. Liz raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise breaking her popular girlfriend facade. Felicia tilted her head, interested, there was venom, but also humor there. Harry seethed red, trying to string together words that wouldn't sound like foam.
Flash, who could not tolerate losing center stage, resumed the script via the lowest route.
"You're useless, Parker. A pathetic loser. No parents and a dead uncle."
The "Dead" came with a snap, as if he had broken a ruler on the edge of the table.
The sound cut the hallway in two. The laughter died away. Even Flash's group of bullies backed away a fraction of an inch. The insult pierced the air, heavy as lead. For a moment, there was only the sounds of school: a buzzing lamp, the ancient air conditioner sputtering, someone in the back swallowing hard.
Peter felt the memory surge, Ben Parker's face, the warm kitchen, the phrase that never left the wall of his bones. With great power… He didn't close his eyes. Not today. He let the pain pass, let it sharpen him into focus.
He laughed. A short, mirthless laugh, closer to an unwavering no.
"At least they loved me."
He said, his voice firm.
"They taught me about duty, responsibility. Things you never understood, Eugene."
The name hit like a slap. "Eugene." The gleam in Flash's eyes wavered. Some of the filming crew glanced at each other uncertainly.
"You're the basic stereotype of the idiot bully."
Peter continued, without raising his voice.
"And it's not all your fault. Little Eugene gets beaten at home, rejected by his own father, then he goes looking for someone younger to take it out on. Classic. And maybe that's why you and Harry get along so well: you both found the "love" in each other that you couldn't find in your parents' eyes."
A thick, almost solid silence fell across the rows of lockers. Kong's eyes widened, and Brad lowered his phone for a moment. Liz's expression cracked, not with anger, but with confused understanding. Ava's eyes narrowed even further, as if weighing truths. Felicia smiled differently: something slower, sharper.
Flash seemed frozen, his neck muscles like taut ropes. Anger, for an instant, turned to panic, the kind that tries to hide and fails. He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. The world that had idolized him had been pushed two inches away.
Peter took a step forward. Not a step of threat, but of clarity. His entire body knew he could end this in a flash, a dodge here, a twist there, and the boy in front of him would be asleep on the floor before he could finish the insult. But that wasn't what he wanted. Not today.
"Do you know what the difference is between us?"
Peter asked, resting his hand on the metal of the cabinet, as if biding time for everyone to hear.
"You call me 'nerd' as if it were an insult. I'm not a nerd. I'm not even part of their club. I'm a genius. Like Tony Stark, Reed Richards, Hank Pym. People who change the world. One day, my name will be in books, in papers, in patents, in stories people tell to inspire their children. They'll remember Peter Benjamin Parker like they remember Einstein, Newton, Galileo, yes, Shakespeare too, because it's not just science that imprints your name on eternity, it's what you do with it. And you, Eugene "Flash" Thompson... no one will remember. Maybe you'll become a gym teacher, nothing against that, or something else that never takes you beyond your own reflection. Not because you can't, but because you choose to be less, every single day."
The word "choose" hung in the air, heavy as responsibility. Jessica and Angélica smiled, eyes shining, as if watching someone draw a line on the ground and cross it. Gwen bit her lower lip, a quiet, thoughtful pride. Felicia wet the corner of her lip with her tongue in an unconscious gesture, her gaze openly amused: who would have thought the Parker boy had claws?
Inside, Peter felt another truth, one he kept to himself: You can be better, Flash. You can join the Army, lose, and still win, wear a symbol and make a difference. He didn't say it. Not today. Today, Flash needed to hear the sound of a mirror shattering.
Flash's face trembled with exertion. He attempted a lunge, but it didn't come. He tried to retort, but stumbled in his own silence. His hands open, the veins in his temples bulging, he stood in a place he didn't recognize: defeat, without a single punch thrown.
"Enough."
A voice came from the back, faint, timid, no matter whose. The entire hallway knew that "enough" had, indeed, been proclaimed.
That's when Harry decided he wasn't going to accept the script. Jealousy and envy were their own chemistry in his eyes, two substances that, when mixed, produced an explosion. He lunged forward in a miscalculated arc, his fist aimed at Peter's jaw.
The world slowed down for Spider-Man. His spider-sense sang in harmony, the lines of movement clear as scribbles in the air.
Peter raised his arm, caught Harry's punch mid-flight, and with a smooth twist, shoved the boy against the locker. The metal groaned. The pressure was just right: enough to immobilize him without hurting him.
Harry's eyes, green and watery with anger, met Peter's inches away.
"Your mother…"
Peter said it quietly, firmly, he didn't need volume to get it across.
"Would be ashamed of what you have become."
Harry's eyes widened. For a second, the mask cracked, and the boy behind it, the one who had once sought affection in the shadows of his own home, blinked in confusion.
Peter let go. Harry's fist fell harmlessly to his side. He staggered a step, silent.
Peter turned, the hallway opening without anyone needing to coordinate. It was as if an invisible force shifted the bodies two feet to the side, forming a corridor of respect. He passed Flash without looking. The blond remained frozen, flushed, shame making him break out in a cold sweat beneath his team jacket.
Beside him, Liz gripped the strap of her own bag tightly. The urge to defend her boyfriend clashed with something new pulsing in her stomach, a dangerous mix of admiration and curiosity.
Felicia let out a satisfied "hm", like someone tasting a wine and discovering an unexpected note. Ava followed Peter with her eyes, thinking: self-control is a muscle as important as any other. Jessica and Angelica exchanged a silent "did you see that?"; Gwen smiled, very slightly, as if amused by fate finally getting the equation right.
Peter crossed the hall and pushed open the exit door. Late afternoon light spilled gold onto the cement stairs. The Queens air smelled of stale gasoline, pretzels, and hot asphalt, a scent of home.
He took two steps down and stopped, his hands on the railing. His heart was still pounding, but not from fear: from the line he chose not to cross.
The memory of Flash's fist in the air, the millimeter curve he'd dodged with Liz in the crook of his arm, Harry's weight against the locker, all of it formed a sequence of decisions.
Not hitting had taken more strength than any punch.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. A random notification, a reminder of the normal world. He ignored it. He needed the silence, the sound of his own blood.
"Nice speech, Parker."
The voice came from above, from the shadow the stairwell's canopy cast on the wall. Felicia Hardy detached herself from the dark rectangle as if the contrast itself had painted her there. She stepped down a step, her feline eyes laughing at a joke no one else heard.
"I didn't know you had that… charm."
Peter inhaled. There was a game Felicia played with everyone, and with him, this time, more intensely. The game of not stating the obvious. Of choosing a step above common speech.
"He needed to hear it."
Peter said simply.
"He needed it."
She agreed, and that surprised Peter more than any provocation.
"And you needed to say it."
The tilt of her chin was almost tender, if "tender" were a word Felicia would allow to be attached to her own name.
"But be careful, Pete. Speeches like that create fans… and enemies. And some of both are equally dangerous."
"I know."
He knew. Life suddenly seemed like a much larger board than the hallway of lockers allowed.
Felicia laughed in her throat.
"Eugene…"
She repeated, savoring it.
"It was cruel. Cruel and deserved."
She turned around, climbing two steps backward.
"Don't let that shine fade, Parker. Even I like to see the king pass by."
"I am not king of anything."
He answered, but she was already disappearing through the door, leaving behind only the scent of expensive perfume and the idea that "king" was less a title and more a posture.
The door creaked again. Liz stepped out, hesitating on the plateau between shadow and light. Her face bore the marks of conflict. She stepped down a step, paused, glanced over her shoulder, as if sizing up the people watching her from the hallway, and then fixed Peter with something that felt dangerously like honesty.
"Thank you for… saving me earlier."
The voice came out low, without the performative sugar of ten minutes ago.
"I… didn't think you'd say no."
"Neither do I."
Peter admitted, and a chuckle from a corner just passed between them.
"I mean… I thought so. But I didn't know if it would sound that way."
"It sounded…"
She searched for the word, found something that would make her deny it later if anyone asked.
"Brave."
For a moment, the two of them stood there, caught in a space between years of habit and a moment of novelty. Liz opened her mouth, closed it.
"We'll talk."
It wasn't a question. It was an honest retreat. She lifted her chin, regaining a part of her persona.
"And… I do my homework."
"Do it, Allan."
Peter smiled, not ironically, but with genuine encouragement that surprised her. She nodded and went back inside, the social sphere swallowing her up again.
The stairs were left alone. Just for a minute.
"It was insane in there."
Jessica came down with Angelica right behind her, the two of them alternating glances and assessments as if they were checking a patient's vitals.
"I mean… I would have chosen different words, but…"
"But I laughed."
Angélica completed, awkwardly.
"And it was beautiful to see Harry's face."
"I didn't want to humiliate anyone."
Peter said, knowing that a piece of him, small but real, wanted it.
"I wish it would stop."
"Sometimes the only way to stop a dinosaur is to show it that it is not the biggest animal in the jungle."
Jessica leaned her shoulder against the railing.
"You did it without turning into a dinosaur. Point for you."
Peter nodded. Gwen waited a few steps above, as if respecting an invisible perimeter. Her look said, "I see", "I understand", "It's okay", three sentences that were worth more than any request to explain.
"It's going to rain videos for days."
Angelica scoffed, lifting her cell phone.
"But everyone can see you didn't touch them. That helps."
"Yeah."
Peter replied.
"Helps."
He didn't say the rest: that he'd seen the trajectory of Harry's punch like a chalk line on a blackboard, that he'd heard the thud of Flash's fist against metal like listening to time itself bend, that all of this was an internal orchestra that, if he wanted, he could transform into pure violence. He didn't.
"See you tomorrow."
Jessica said, adjusting the strap of her backpack. There was pride there. And a friendship that, in another life, he would have begged to have born.
Now she was born without supplication.
The two of them went upstairs. Ava appeared in the doorway for a second, her sharp gaze registering that Peter stood, calm, whole. A microgesture of approval. Nothing more. Gone.
Peter stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun was gnawing at the rooftops of the buildings across the street, windows casting rectangles of slanting fire onto the asphalt. He began to walk, his body light with the kind of lightness that comes after, after not being crushed, after remaining whole.
At the end of the block, the window of a pawn shop revealed the image of a boy in worn sneakers, a ratty t-shirt, and an old backpack. The reflection didn't show what mattered: a new line in his walk, a new axis within.
His phone lit up. Aunt May: "Are you home early today, honey? I made a cake." His heart clenched with the warmth of home.
He typed quickly: "I'm going. Save a big chunk."
He put the device away and, for a second, looked up at the sky. The city had its own language: sirens, horns, voices, footsteps, stubborn birds. In that language, he heard a promise.
Things are changing.
And I'm in the eye of the storm.
He didn't know the size of the eye of that hurricane yet. He only knew that when he re-entered those echoing metal doors, the eye sockets would be a little different, that Flash would measure twice before advancing, that Harry would take longer to put his own masks back together, that Liz, Jessica, Angelica, Gwen, Ava, Felicia, they would all have a new understanding of who Peter Parker was.
Not the cowering nerd. Not the punching bag. Not the invisible one.
At the intersection, the light changed, and a stream of cars forced him to stop. He smiled, remembering the exact moment he'd stopped Harry's punch. The words he'd chosen. The no he'd said to Liz. How the hallway had opened up as he'd passed.
In his pocket, the house key weighed less than usual. He rolled it between his fingers. Balance, precision, it was almost a trick.
"With great power…"
He murmured, and the rest of the sentence completed itself, as intimate as his own breath.
He crossed the street, leaving behind the school that, for an instant, transformed him into a star, not one that falls, but one that traces a path.
And if someone had filmed not just the interrupted fight, the insults, and the speech, but also that simple, everyday step, they would have seen the most dangerous thing of all happen silently: Peter Parker taking a step forward.